Like Gibbs, I don't believe in coincidences - the shooting had to be orchestrated by The Cougar. Who else could it be?
I wish to hell it was just another drive by shooting - that would make this a whole lot easier. In Tel Aviv or Jerusalem, it might have been. Especially since the shooter I took out was an Arab dry cleaner, who'd lived in this country for almost fifteen years. Was he somebody's sleeper agent, or just a gun for hire? It's going to take weeks to track down every last detail of this guy's life. And we're going to have to put agents in the Middle East on the trail to check him out on that end, too.
I'm exhausted, but I can't turn my brain off. I keep going over what we know about The Cougar. I keep trying to forget what it felt like to finally, after all these years, really kiss Ziva, and have her kiss me back. I remember the feeling of taking down the shooter, and the chaos that followed. Eventually, I drift off to an uneasy sleep.
The sound of a whimper awakens me immediately. I sit up in the bed that I haven't gotten to sleep in for more than ninety minutes in the past thirty-six hours and strain to make out the sound. For a second, I'm not even sure if that sound came from Ziva's bedroom, or from my dream. When you get right down to it, it's hard to distinguish one whimper from another.
Running one hand through my hair, I glare at the readout on the alarm clock. Three-thirty in the morning is not my favorite time to be awakened, dream or otherwise.
Damn it! There it is again. That's definitely a whimper. I slide to the edge of the bed and stand. I should just let her deal with her nightmares by herself, but, if she gets too loud, it'll bring the guards in from the front of the house, and that would embarrass the shit out of her. I'm still not completely sure she's forgiven me for seeing her having a nightmare after her father died, and I've known her for eight years.
Jesus, the past thirty-six hours have been a nightmare of another kind.
Gibbs really looked like he wanted to re-break my nose last night - or spank some sense into Ziva.
It hasn't been the best day any of us have ever seen, by any means, but I still don't regreat breaking Ziva out of our little Gibbs-imposed prison for a few hours. Even if she isn't really speaking to me right now. And even if the night isn't going to end the way I thought it might, a lifetime ago.
After Gibbs finally sent McGee home last night, trailing Gavvy along with him, we stood in the ICU wing and all glared at each other for about five minutes. Finally, we turned our attention to Abby. Gibbs had talked to the doctor, so he had the most recent update on her condition.
"How's she doing?" I asked.
"About the same as she was two hours ago, DiNozzo." Gibbs sounded tired, which is unusual. But then again, why wouldn't he? "They don't think she'll needs a transplant."
"What are her chances?" Ziva asked.
"If there aren't any further complications, about eighty percent," he gritted out.
I watched as Ziva tentatively reached out and touched his hand, and felt that a sudden jealous twinge at the thought that she could offer Gibbs comfort, but not me. He shakes off her hand, and turns away from her, his back stiff with anger and irritation.
I move away from the two of them, a little closer to the nurses station, but where I can still keep an eye on Abby in the Surgical ICU unit. She looks pale, but stronger than she did four hours ago. I just stand there watching her, trying not to think about anything, until I hear their angry whispers coming down the hall.
Shit, this is so not good. I don't really think Gibbs will actually write her up or anything, but I don't want to hear about it from her all the way back to the safe house, either.
"No, Gibbs! It will not be necessary for you to escort me back to the safe house. I know my duty, and what my priorities are supposed to be! I'll have a report for you by afternoon."
Gibbs was just getting wound up, though. "If you'd stayed at the safe house where I'd ordered you to, in the first place, you'd wouldn't have needed to write a damned report, David!"
Okay, that was just out of line. Next thing you know, he'll blame everything that happened last night on Ziva, too - just what she needs with her tendency towards self-flagellation.
"Jesus Christ! Would the two of you just knock it off." I'm willing to take the body blow from Gibbs, if necessary, just to shut the two of them up. "Look, Boss, I'm tired. You're tired. I wouldn't dream of speaking for Super Special Agent David here, but there's no reason why she shouldn't be tired, too. There was no reason to believe that we were followed yesterday; there weren't any even any coincidental maybes. The only way - the *only* way - The Cougar could have trailed us to the club, is if there's a leak. If you want to write Ziva up for visiting a friend at the hospital, then go ahead and do it. But I'm going back to the safe house and sleep. Unless you really want to make the trek out there and back with Ziva, when we all know you'd rather be here with Abby, then we're both out of here."
I may have over-played my hand with that last remark. Evidently, Ziva figured I did, too. I'm just surprised how she reacted, given that she hasn't wanted to speak to me all night.
Stepping right in between us, she firmly states, "I will have the report finished and on your desk by noon, tomorrow. I will email it to McGee." We could both hear the exhaustion in her voice, but her back remained ramrod straight, and I could see she was returning his hard angry stare with one of her own ninja death glares.
"You do that, Agent David. I trust that there will be no further little excursions needed?" Gibbs couldn't stop himself from tacking on.
"I will do what needs to be done, Gibbs - so I make no promises. Permission to leave?" She certainly stood her ground, and I just stand and watch as Gibbs finally relents.
"Good night, David."
Oh, yeah. The ride back to the safe house was lots of fun. The only thing making any sound on that ride was the Mustang's engine. Once we got there, Ziva nodded to the guards, then walked quickly through the living room and up the stairs to her bedroom, as if I didn't even exist. That whimper that woke me up was the only sound I'd heard from her since we'd left the hospital.
I pause outside her bedroom door and try to figure out what to do next. The whimper has turned into a low moan. And definitely not the kind of moan I want to hear from her lips.
"No, please, don't," I clearly hear, as I slowly turn the doorknob and crack the door. It's actually been a fairly pleasant spring for the Eastern Seaboard, and she has cracked the window in her room. The last of the moonlight barely reaches her, but the sight males my heart stop. I've always known that Ziva David is a beautiful woman. But let's be honest here, I've bedded a lot of beautiful women in my day. But there's always been a certain quality about this particular woman, though. A quality that I refuse to examine too closely. Hell, a quality that I've never really been given an opportunity to examine too closely, if you want to get right down to it.
It could be every damned romantic 'B' movie cliché - I go to the bed, sit next to her, rousing her gently, she falls into my arms, we make wild, passionate love, and... knowing her, tomorrow morning, she wouldn't be able to stand to be in the same room with me. Not on your life.
"Ziva." I flip on the light switch. "Ziva, wake up."
